


An Object Lesson

by Hopetohell



Category: Mission: Impossible (Movies)
Genre: Objectification, Orgasm Denial, Other, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Reader-Insert, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-12
Updated: 2020-09-12
Packaged: 2021-03-06 17:14:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26432470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hopetohell/pseuds/Hopetohell
Summary: If he’s going to teach you a lesson, it’s probably a good idea to pay attention.
Relationships: August Walker/Reader
Kudos: 12





	An Object Lesson

“This is for your own good.” Walker’s voice is even, smooth, almost soothing. There’s just a touch of gravel in his voice, the smallest hint of something he’s holding back. And as he binds your wrists to the headboard his hands are far from gentle, but it’s also hardly the roughest handling you’ve ever had, so why does it fill you with so much apprehension?

He brushes his lips across your temple, timed to the sharp dig of his fingertips between your ribs. It pulls a gasp from you and he swallows it down, steals the air from your lungs. “Are you paying attention? This will be a lesson for you.” He checks the restraints one last time, switches on the monitor, and then he just. leaves. 

Turns out being tied up is _really fucking boring._ He drifts past the doorway once in a while, sipping coffee or carrying papers. He doesn’t even acknowledge you’re there, even when you yell and curse at him. And it’s been _hours._

He comes in at one point with some cubed cheese and fruit and unties one hand so you can feed yourself, but then it’s right back in the ropes. And he still doesn’t say a damn thing.

When you begin to drift, when you’ve been there long enough your thoughts start to go hazy around the edges, that’s when he returns. He asks you, then, what you’ve learned. What all this time alone and drifting has taught you. And if your answer of _patience_ isn’t completely what he wants, it’s at least enough to satisfy. 

“Good, that’s good. That must have been a hard lesson, since it took you so _fucking long.”_ He leans down, runs the edges of his sharp teeth along your throat. “Now, how can we make sure the lesson sticks?” He slides a hand under your neck, fingers curling to grip the hair at your nape as the graze of his teeth becomes a bite.

You’ll have perfect tooth-shaped indentations in your neck after this. He works his jaw back and forth to drive the bruises deeper, tongue flicking out to lick at you and the feel of it has you whining. 

His free hand is skating lightly down your belly, fingers lifting up from your skin every time your hips move, until his hand is settled at the apex of your thighs, stroking delicately. It’s not enough, not nearly, and you could just weep with frustration. His lips curl against your neck in a snarl or a grin; you can’t tell which. His teeth are still buried in your throat, after all.

You know the lesson now, the paired themes of patience and submission, of giving yourself over to his will. But your body hasn’t quite gotten the message yet; your hips tilt and gyre on their own, chasing his hand. 

But you’re trying so hard, aren’t you? You’re already aching just from the effort of trying to hold still, even if you’re failing. But by god do you try. And he sees that, he does, and he rewards you with increased pressure from his hand, fingers curling and stroking just right, until you’re on the very precipice of orgasm, until one more touch will be enough.

And he takes his hand away. 

You could just cry with frustration, couldn’t you? And you _are_ crying, a bit, eyes wet as you garble out nonsense, anything to get his hands back on you. And somewhere in there a _use me, please, fuck, anything_ slips out, and of course he latches right onto that one. It’s another lesson, to choose your words carefully because he will give you exactly what you ask for. 

He grins, sharp-toothed and savage. “I hope you’re ready for me. Because that’s all the prep you’re going to get.”

In the space of a breath he’s got one arm barred across your throat and the other hand guiding his cock into you in one long relentless push. It’s too much, too fast; when he bottoms out he doesn’t even look at you, just grits his teeth and chases pleasure. You feel like a toy, existing solely for his use. It hurts, and you could cry with it. But you’re also trying your damnedest to rock your hips upward to meet him, even as his hand is pressing down to keep you still and passive for him. 

He fucks you hard, uncaring, his only aim to get off. It’s such a contrast from his usual, since even in his cruelest moments he somehow makes it good for you. But this. It’s almost like he’s actively avoiding anything that’ll get you off, and it drives you mad. 

He is completely silent throughout. Even at the end he doesn’t make a sound. His face tightens and he goes still, catching his breath as he pulses inside you, and when he pulls out it’s like you’re not even there. He just leaves you to lie in the mess, seething. 

Distantly, at the other end of the house, you can hear him whistling.

He leaves you there just long enough to make you worry that he really _has_ forgotten about you. But he comes back with a damp cloth and a plate of fruit, and as he sets about cleaning you up he asks, “so. What did you learn today?”


End file.
